


Giftfic 3

by Dreadmartha



Category: Homestuck, Intermission - Fandom
Genre: Mobstershit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadmartha/pseuds/Dreadmartha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midnight Crew being badass. Mobsters shooting at other mobsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giftfic 3

“No, but, robbin’ banks man. That shit’s amazing.”

You two are lying out on the hood of the cruiser, which you parked on the end of Pier Seventeen. You’re pretty sure Slick is high, which is alright because it really helps him relax. And you get along a lot better when he’s relaxed.

He’s friendlier, for one, and curious in a good way. When he’s like this he wants to hear about you, particularly your time down south. You’re pretty sure he wishes he could work solo, even maybe rob places solo.

“It’s not all that great,” you remind him. “And the names they give you are worse.”

“What’d they name you?” His hat is over his face, his arms folded behind his head. Slick stretches out on the hood like he never plans to move. You, on the other hand, are sitting up with your back against the windshield. You can see the distant horizon, dark sky touching black water. Out there, somewhere in the swells, is a boat full of whiskey coming your way.

“Don’t remember.”

“C’mon, how can you not remember?”

“Not that memorable,” you fish your cigarettes out of your back pocket. “Besides, I only heard it once or twice before I quit.”

“Bullshit.”

You watch the swells, lighting your cigarette. Smoke joins the mist off the water. It’s foggy out, tonight.

“I bet it’s, Fuck Boy Clyde.”

“It was not.”

“Worse, then, huh? Lemme think, here,” Slick rubs his chin and you’re not all that eager to hear what he comes up with.

“Butterball Dempsey.” You admit.

Slick cracks up, curling up because that’s apparently really funny.

You take solace in knowing he won’t remember this tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Butterball!”

He keeps cackling as you watch the shore line.

“They’d call you Dental Jack.”

“Why the fuck would they?”

“Looked at your teeth lately?”

He sucks his teeth, which you’re sure loosens a few.

“They wouldn’t dare.”

You flick your cigarette over the side of the car, lean back against the windshield and look up at the dark sky. Are those clouds of fog or is it a starless night?

“When’s he supposed to get here?”

“Fuck if I know.”

You glance at the sea again, then put your head back and close your eyes.

“Tell me about Itta Bena.”

“Itta Bena,” you have to think back. That was back when you were still in Mississippi. “It was a small town,”

——

The phone was in the middle of the hideout, meaning that if it rang everyone could hear it and had a decent chance of answering.

This time, as was usually the case, Droog answers. You watch from the couch. Phone calls are rare. Rare things, in a business like yours, are bad.

Your name is Heart Boxcars and you haul yourself up when Droog shots you a glare and slams the phone down without saying goodbye or anything of the usual polite shit.

“Where?” You already have a good idea where the trouble is about to start. Droog pulls on his coat as you two leg it down the hall.

“Pier Seventeen.”

——

“You went in covered?”

“Yeah,”

“So what, you were just gonna blow them all to hell if the cops came?”

“That’s what bombs in your coat are for.”

“Jesus Christ.” Slick has gotten higher, you think. Probably because he’s living your old story in his head, trying to figure out what it’s like to bust into a bank with nothing but a machine gun, a reputation and an overcoat full of dynamite.

Or maybe he’s just hit the high point of his high. You hope the boat comes soon, driving back with him when he’s coming down really sucks.

Slick sits up, humming and looking around.

“Where the fuck is he?” He pulls a hand through his hair. The stuff’s probably making him antsy.

“He’ll be here,”

As you say it, something bright red comes through the mist. It flickers over to the side of the car for a moment, then you hear it clunk on the wood of the pier. Slick moves towards it and the only thing that runs through you head it that you know only one way to throw fire.

You jump off the hood, crashing into Slick and getting your arms around him as fire and gasoline meet in a bottle by the car.

You get lost in smoke and fog, but you know that wherever behind you is, there bullets being fired.

——

There’s ten guy on the pier, two cars. Droog takes out one car and guy when he swings the truck wide, toppling the enemy car and introducing the enemy to your right front wheel. Before you even get a decent grip on his Thompson he’s exited the vehicle and probably broken the nose of the poor guy nearest the truck.

He’s a fucking nut.

You get out and pitch the Thompson over to him. Three guys are still firing into the fog towards the end of pier. You grab one, his gun, and pump lead into his chest cavity.

Then somebody unloads on your shoulder with a shotgun. You spray everything around that’s above four feet with bullets, two guys fall.

You’ve already lost count.

Somebody over to your left screams bloody murder and you know Droog is doing alright. You ram the butt of your gun into some jerk’s stomach, then crack his jaw so harder his neck goes too.

Sweet Jesus your shoulder hurts.

Lead’s flying behind you, and God only knows who it’s from. You take some in the leg. These guys are fucking terrible if they can’t hit something your size, Jesus god damn Christ.

Your finger’s locked around the trigger but nothing’s happening at the end of that barrel so you grab the barrel and swing for some guy’s face like you’re Joe god damn DiMaggio.

You turn around, looking for something else to hit, only to find Droog with the barrel of his Thompson jammed under some little guy’s jaw. The poor bastard is sweating like a stuck pig and Droog’s doing that thing with his eyes where you gets into your head and really fucks you up. Or, at least that’s what it feels like when he gives you that look.

So, like any good mobster would, you leg it through the fog to the end of the pier.

“Car’s out!”

It’s a wreck, half of it’s blasted off, the rest is on fire and full of holes.

Where the hell are they?

——

“Fuck’s going on up there?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“This was your fucking dumbass idea, take a look up there for Christ’s sake.”

“No way in hell.”

“Fucking do it! That’s an order! My arms are getting tired.”

You pull yourself up until your nose clears the end of the pier.

“Hearts?”

He turns, then rushes over and grabs you from where you were hanging.

“What the hell—”

“I’m here too, you fucking idiot!”

Hearts grabs Slick too, pulls him back onto the pier.

“What the hell were you doing?”

Slick’s busy with his cigarettes so you answer.

“It was my idea. I figured they wouldn’t see us if we hung off the end of pier.”

“Just about fucking killed my arms, too.”

“Gimme a cigarette.”

Slick passes you one, snorting.

“You got a serious deathwish, Fuck Boy Clyde.”

“Shut up, Dental.”


End file.
